Mrs. White swayed on her feet.
Paul straightened. Casually, he stepped forward and stood over her. Mrs. White blindly searched her husband’s face.
Smiling, Paul White reached down and took his wife’s wrist easily into his grasp.
“Come on,” he said. “Give it here.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
As Inspectors Scott and Ross brought their car around the corner of Elm Street, two patrol cars whipped into line in back of them. The three continued on, lights flashing, sirens screaming, until the White cottage came into sight by the side of the wooded road.
“That it, you think?” said Scott.
“The cottage on the Cornell property,” Ross shouted over the siren. “There’s the mailbox, right.”
The police cars went into the White driveway, one, two, three. The tires screeched and the gravel flew as they came to a stop.
The police poured from their cars—Scott and Ross first, then four patrolmen. Scott and Ross led the way to the front door.
Scott knocked hard. Ross felt under his coat for his snub-nosed thirty-eight. In twenty years of suburban service, he had never once drawn it in the line of duty. The patrolmen behind him unbuttoned their holster straps, and Ross noticed nervously how young they were. Scott kept knocking. He was shouting now.
“Police. Open up please. Mrs. White! Mr. White!”
The patrolmen began craning their necks, checking out the surrounding area. They knew how bad guys jump out at you unawares. They had seen it on TV. One of them—a slightly older patrolman named Anderson—had a knife scar that had not come from TV. He kept his eyes on the Whites’ front door.
It was, therefore, a young man named Straub who saw it first. He glanced back over his shoulder, his hand resting on his pistol, and saw it at the edge of the woods.
“Hey, Inspector,” he said. His voice shook.
Scott stopped knocking. He and Ross turned. The others turned. They all saw it now.
A figure had emerged from the forest at the end of the lawn. Even from where they stood, the lawmen could see the blood covering it from head to toe.
Ross was the first one to start running, then Scott, then the others followed. The sight grew uglier as they approached, but none of them drew his weapon until Scott did. Scott pulled the thirty-eight from his shoulder holster when he saw the glint of the butcher knife.
The six policemen approached the figure, the two older men panting for air now.
Ross, in the lead, was the first to speak, when he thought he was within earshot. The words barely made it out through his labored breath.
“… Paul White?”
Guns drawn, the police came to a stop about five yards from the blood-soaked specter. Each of them felt a chill as the dazed, dead eyes turned to them.
“What?”
Ross took a deep breath and tried it again.
“Where is Paul White?”
It took another moment before Mrs. White understood him. Then she nodded slowly. Then she said: “I had to stop him. It was wrong what he did. I had to kill him. I killed him. He’s dead now. He’s dead.”
Then she let the butcher’s knife slide from her fingers to the ground. Then she followed it, collapsing to her knees before Inspector Scott caught her.
EPILOGUE
Something was waking Jonathan Cornell.
To his own surprise, he had fallen asleep in his chair. Just like an old man, he thought, sighing. And, come to think of it, that’s just what I feel like.
He roused himself, his muscles aching. The noise that had awakened him repeated itself. It was the doorbell.
He reached down beside him to get the crutch. It had fallen to the floor. He let his fingers dangle after it, but they would not reach. He felt a pang at his side and raised his hand quickly.
The bell rang again. Who the hell is it? he thought. Then he remembered.
Today was moving day.
Cornell felt another kind of pang then.
“Come in!” he called. “It’s open.”
There was a moment’s pause. Still shy, Cornell thought. The door opened and Mrs. White was standing there.
She seemed a bit uneasy. Her good hand opened and closed slowly at her side. Her left arm hung in its sling, still bandaged. Behind her were the beautiful early autumn leaves. Her strawberry-blond hair mingled with their colors.
“Excuse me if I don’t stand up,” Cornell said, smiling. “I can’t stand up.”
Mrs. White smiled back. She seemed to relax. She shut the door behind her and came forward.
“I just wanted to give you the keys,” she said. She put her hand into the pocket of her skirt and brought out two different sets. “Here’s mine. And …” She faltered. “The other one.”
Nodding, Cornell took them. He closed his hand over them tightly.
“So,” he said, “movers gone?”
“Yes. All gone.”
“Good, good.” He paused. “I mean, it’s … always good to … get it over with.” Cornell winced. I am so bad at this, he thought.
But Mrs. White still smiled. She had lost weight during these last months. She looked tired. But Cornell thought that, all in all, it was an improvement. There was more shape to her, less fat. She looked less frumpy, he thought, and smiled.
What, he wondered, was he supposed to say to her? Nothing seemed right. Could he say: Be careful? Watch out. She knew all about that. Better to tell her: Don’t be careful. Don’t learn to be afraid. No one has a monopoly on suffering, love is forever an act of courage, and love, in the end, is all that flesh and blood are good for.
Cornell was silent. It was Mrs. White who spoke.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Who, me?” Cornell shrugged. “Okay. Doc says in a couple days, maybe a week, I can stop playing Ahab.” He saw that the reference was lost on her. “I mean, I can get rid of the crutch.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. White. “Good. Well—thank you. Again.”
Cornell shook his head. It was the best he could do. “It was you,” he said.
“You saved my life.”
He shook his head again. “You.”
Mrs. White gave a small shrug. “Well … for everything else, then.”
“Every little thing.” He smiled broadly. For a single second he wanted to apologize—just for being male, probably—but the feeling passed. That was one thing he knew she didn’t need to hear. She had better stuff in her than that. She had decency—a big word—and an amazing capacity for devotion. He thought he remembered reading somewhere that God gave everyone a talent. That was hers. Maybe he should just say: Better luck next time, ma’am. You’ll make some fellow a wonderful wife.
“Well,” she said softly, “good fishing.”
“And good luck to you, Mrs. White,” he said.
“Joan,” she said. “Call me Joan.”
The children were already in the car when she returned. Mary was in the front seat, Junior in back. Mary sat still with her hands folded in her lap, but tears were coursing down her cheeks unceasingly. Junior’s eyes were dry, his face blank.
Joan got behind the wheel. She gave them both her best smile.
“Ready?” she said.
Mary nodded and sniffled. Junior said nothing.
Joan started the car and brought it out of the driveway. She headed down the street, the same old street, past the trees tinged with new color, same old trees, same old autumn starting over again.
She drove with her good arm, slowly, carefully. She did not look back. She thought of other things. Of the day her bandages would be removed, of getting a job, a place to live. Getting the kids into school again. There was plenty to think about—just enough. She thought about the route she would take to her mother’s.
Beside her, Mary continued to cry. She sniffed now and then, but otherwise made no noise. Behind her, Junior moved in his seat. His face still blank, his eyes vaguely curious, he took a long look back at the cottage as it dis
appeared around the bend.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Andrew Klavan (b. 1954) is a highly successful author of thrillers and hard-boiled mysteries. Born in New York City, Klavan was raised on Long Island and attended college at the University of California at Berkeley. He published his first novel, Face of the Earth, in 1977, and continued writing mysteries throughout the eighties, finding critical recognition when The Rain (1988) won an Edgar Award for best new paperback.
Besides his crime fiction, Klavan has distinguished himself as an author of supernatural thrillers, most notably Don’t Say a Word (1991), which was made into a film starring Michael Douglas. He has two ongoing series: Weiss and Bishop, a private-eye duo who made their debut in Dynamite Road (2003), and The Homelanders, a young-adult series about teenagers who fight radical Islam. Besides his fiction, Klavan writes regular opinion pieces for the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and other national publications. He lives in Southern California.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1983 by Margaret Tracy
Cover design by Kat Lee
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